Vive le Neon, Vive le Tweed

At the risk of projecting self-inadequacy, does anyone know who makes this holy grail of tweed jackets? My hunch says Matthew Williamson but my hunch also once confused a Van Gogh for Chagall, so. Update: Marc Jacobs Pre-Spring 2009. In other news: honey, I’m home, and by home I mean back, because, you know, I didn’t really go anywhere much further than Stanton Street over the course of the holiday weekend. I will however say that it was a nice mental vacation and even though I feel like a baby learning to walk writing this post because it’s been a solid five days since I’ve last written anything, I did have some time to exercise my brain and start rereading old Gay Talese essays, surf Yoox to find some drastically and magically slashed shoe prices and perhaps most importantly: sift through the hilariously rad entries listed on site to win the YSL cyclops bracelet that I posted last week. I’m conflicted among three participants: one who insists her vagina has three lips, another who wants to bang Hannibal Lecter and one smart broad whose story involves a naive roommate, sick pigeon and parasites. These contests are a really fantastic way to gauge your strangeness: one participant confesses she used to eat play dough. Hey, me too! All the sudden, I don’t feel so singled out–and I don’t mean that in the Jenny McCarthy circa MTV 1999 sense of the phrase. I mean it more in the it-takes-someone-special-to-bring-the-funk sense. Finally, to divert attention back to the pinacle of this post: vive le neon, vive le tweed. Let’s look up and salute Tommy Ton’s Jak and Jil come back. Man I missed your photos.

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